Why We Do the Things We Do
by psychobabblers
Summary: Neal is framed for a theft, and is apparently on the run. But when the trail the FBI relentlessly pursues turns bloody, can Peter look beyond Neal's shady past and find the truth, before it's too late?
1. Neal

**Disclaimer: I do not own White Collar, or any of its characters.**

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_Why the blame?_

_I followed you,_

_obeyed you,_

_befriended you._

_So why the blame?_

**........**

"_Do it_," I hear myself hiss. "I dare you!"

Looking down at the crowd—okay, it wasn't really a crowd, but they outnumbered me—of FBI agents, I was swept once more by an intense rage. How dare they? I'd been working with them for quite awhile now, and although I couldn't really say that I'd gotten close to any except Peter, I was shocked that they could accuse me of this. And _he'd_ believed it too.

"I trusted you! Against my better judgement, I trusted you!" a shout from below, "But never in my worst nightmares did I ever think you would do something like this!"

But I didn't do it, I longed to tell him, I didn't. But how dare he believe their accusations? I _hated_ guns, always had, always would. Guns caused nothing but pain, and death, and no matter how elegantly they could make killing in spy movies, dead was still dead, irreversible, untouchable, _dead_.

I looked down again at the accusing faces, and emotions ranged from grim realization that their opinion of me had been confirmed, horror, betrayal, the list went on and on. Nowhere did I see a face that doubted the story that they'd been fed. I met Peter's—Agent Burke's, I thought to myself furiously—eyes, and the muzzle of his gun wavered slightly, hesitated just a bit. Then it'd steadied, once more pointed directly at my heart.

Bitterness spread through me. I wasn't a murderer. I thought they'd have known that by now. That was why I stuck to white collar crimes. They required finesse, intelligence, and class to pull off. No death involved, not for me, not for the people I stole from. True, these past few days might have tried their patience with me, but I was sure that Peter—Agent Burke!—would have been on my side. He knew I hated guns, he knew me better than anyone.

"_Do it_," I hear myself hiss again, "_I dare you_."

But I didn't, not really. I don't want to die. There was nothing beautiful in death, no matter how much you believed, how much you _wanted_ to go to Heaven, or the afterlife, to close your eyes and just drift away_. _As if dying was like sleeping. Sleeping was good. Death, however you might look at it, was not. Death was permanent. Irreversible. Death, was Death.

I glanced behind me before I scanned their faces again. Their desperation was growing, I could feel it. I found myself wanting to reassure them, but I stopped myself. They don't care about you. They don't see you as a person, a human being, not now, not before, not _ever_. They look at you and see a criminal. So why do you care? I don't care, I snarl to myself. It's just…I don't want anyone to get hurt, "To die", I whisper the last two words aloud. I shook myself and glanced behind me again.

I definitely didn't want Peter—Agent Burke, I wearily reminded myself—to die. Elizabeth…I didn't even want to imagine how she would feel, what she would go through. And even though I had lost his trust and his regard, I didn't want to see him die. I was loyal to my friends. But he didn't see it. He never knew that I respected him, that despite my constantly annoying him, that I considered him my friend.

One more glance behind me. Did I want to die?

Did I have a choice?

Time was running out.

**......**

**Review please! **


	2. Peter

**Thanks for the reviews! They were really appreciated. **

**Sorry, galloping mare, this one is actually shorter. I promise the next will be longer!**

**Disclaimer: Don't own White Collar. If I did, we wouldn't have to wait 2 weeks for another episode!**

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**"_Do it_," a hiss from above. "I dare you!"

Agent Peter Burke glared at the figure standing on top of the roof. To make matters worse, Neal just had to pick a building that was directly in front of the morning sun. He couldn't even lift his hand to shade his eyes because he needed to look intimidating.

This whole entire thing was a nightmare. Just a horrible dream, but something that he would eventually wake up from. Neal couldn't…He wouldn't…_kill_ anyone. Right? He hated guns. So that made it a dream. "It's just a dream. I'll wake up soon and I'll be able to look back and think, Oh, now _that_ was a bad dream," he was muttering under his breath, rambling on and on, and people were starting to give him strange looks. He eyed them back, and then remembered that it was just a dream and it didn't matter what they thought of him. But, his mind whispered treacherously to him, it this is a dream, how could the sunlight shining directly into your eyes feel so real?

Peter shook himself. This was ridiculous. This was a dream, and he'd wake up from it soon.

But suppose…he didn't? Neal had said that he was the only one he trusted. He knew that _Peter_ was finally starting to trust _him_. He wouldn't have betrayed him, right? But the evidence! that cold, analytical part of him cried, it points straight to him! How he hated that part of him right now. Why couldn't he believe Neal? Why did he have to see the case from all angles, and concede that everything really did lead to Neal? Because it was what made him such a good agent. Neal helped too, another part of him argued, he always tried to help. But suddenly the warring sides of him were swept over by rage.

"I trusted you! Against my better judgment, I trusted you!" he heard himself shout, "But never in my worst nightmares did I ever think you would do something like this!"

There was no reaction from the dark figure standing above us. The damn sun turned his face into a shadow. If he could only see his face! Then he'd _know_.

The head turned slightly, and he realized it was staring directly at him. His hands shook, but then he managed to regain control and steady the gun. The head turned away again, staring into the crowd once more.

"_Do it_," it hissed again, "_I dare you._"

Did Neal have a death wish? he wondered briefly. The week before…the incident…he'd been acting strange. He hadn't always been himself. The constant little annoyances had seemed a little forced. At the time he'd thought nothing of it. Now, he wondered if this was somehow his fault. Neal was his responsibility. He knew he was a good person, whatever his past mistakes.

But the evidence! that cold, cold part of him shouted again, The evidence!

Neal was his friend. Neal was a criminal! He groaned; this was making his head ache. Neal was his friend, he knew this. So why the suspicion? The trail of blood, the voice murmured. The bodies, the empty staring eyes. Neal's fingerprint on the bullet.

A movement caught his eye. The shadow had turned its head, looking at…what? What was it looking at. This was the second time the head had turned to look behind it. This was important, he was sure of it! He looked around him and sensed that the other agents were getting desperate.

Murderer! No, _friend_.

Criminal! _Friend!_

If only he could see his face!

Another turn of the head from the shadow.

Time was running out.

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**No verse in the beginning this time--couldn't think of one. Maybe I'll add one in if one comes to mind.**


	3. Investigations

**I'm so sorry for the late update. I actually had most of the chapter written, but I never got the chance to finish it up. But at least the plot's finally moving along. Hope you enjoy it!**

**Thanks for all the reviews! They make my day every time I read them.**

**Disclaimer: don't own White Collar.**

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A few days ago:

I flicked a quick peek over my shoulder as I snuck into the building. Then I mentally smacked myself when I realized how that would look to the FBI who would surely look at the security cameras later. Too late to try and look innocent, I stole carefully around the interior of the room. As this was the crime scene Peter and I had just been at earlier in the day, I knew that my being here would definitely be a cause for suspicion if he were monitoring my tracking anklet right now.

But he wasn't. I knew he wasn't. Because he trusted me, and I trusted him, and we were friends. My gut twisted a bit when I thought of Peter's reaction when he discovered my disappearance.

But it was a long night and several hours of darkness before that would happen.

**………**

"Where is he?" Peter shouted. "He was wearing a tracking bracelet, for crying out loud! Just look at where he was the past few hours before he cut the anklet!" Great, just great. Now, instead of working on catching the elusive criminal that had been hitting museums, wealthy homes, and random shops around the city, they were stuck trying to track down Neal.

Peter was surprised, as well as slightly irritated, at the mayhem in the office. Sighing, he said, "Alright people, pull yourselves together." They stopped to listen. "Lauren, Jones, we're gonna retrace his footsteps. The rest of you, try to come up with any possible escape routes, locations, hideouts Caffrey could've gone to. And set a watch on his apartment. But be discreet." Orders given, the confusion metamorphosed into determination. He motioned for Lauren and Jones to follow him.

On the way to the elevator though, they were intercepted by Hughes. Peter groaned softly to himself. He did _not_ want to deal with this at the moment. Not before he got his hands on Neal and had wrung his little excuses out of him. It wasn't like him to run. Sure, they had their ups and downs, but they were partners, _friends_. Was he in trouble then? He knew that Hughes wouldn't consider the possibility though. Neal was just another criminal to him. To most at the office, actually. Sourly, he thought that Fowler would probably faint from delight if—when—he heard. He definitely needed to contain this before this mess got even more out of control.

"Agent Burke, I heard about Caffrey," Hughes announced as he came up to him. Of course you had, Peter thought furiously, You were the one Jones told first!

"Don't worry, we'll find him," Peter said shortly.

Hughes looked at him for a moment and said nothing. He felt the familiar stirrings of guilt. This was all Neal's fault. He'd gotten him use to the feelings of guilt with his puppy dog expressions that followed him everywhere. Now he felt guilty for things that weren't even his fault! He opened his mouth to say something, but Hughes beat him to it.

"Look Peter, I know you're upset. I know that you considered Caffrey your partner, if not your friend. I know that, and I understand that. But you have to remember: he was a criminal before he was ever your friend. Just…prepare yourself, just in case. Just in case he did betray you." Hughes turned and moved away.

A part of Peter knew that it was a good idea to take Hughes' advice. Neal could've been conning him all along. But he wanted to get Neal's side of the story, before judging him. He had said he trusted him. It was time to repay that trust.

He noticed Lauren and Jones watching him and forced a small, confident smile. "Let's go see what Caffrey's been up to this time."

**…………**

"So where was he last night?" Peter asked.

"He went back to that museum that you guys were at yesterday morning. He stayed there for bit, and then left, most likely in a car. Cut his anklet this morning at around 5 am," Jones reported.

"Museum first then," came the terse reply.

A few minutes later, they arrived at their destination. A security guard came to greet them. "You were here yesterday, weren't you?" he asked. He led the way to the room. "When you're done, just call me over, and I'll show you the security footage." With a cheery grin, he backed up a short distance away so that they could talk in private.

They set to going through the room, looking for clues to Neal's disappearance. After half an hour of searching though, they had to admit to themselves that nothing was different. The room was untouched. Priceless original paintings and pottery were part of the exhibit currently being displayed, and yet, nothing had changed since the last time they were here. Jones and Lauren looked slightly perplexed. Peter was relieved. This was all in favor of Neal's innocence. He called the amiable guard over and he led them to the security room and called up the video.

They watched intently as the Neal on the screen walked in. He looked around nervously, but didn't seem to notice the hidden camera. Now, he crouched down and began to sneak carefully across the room. Silently, they saw him shuffle across the room and then back. Then he moved across the room again. What in the world was he doing? After the third repetition though, Peter realized something was definitely wrong. The guard was called over again.

Peter pointed to the screen. "Why is he doing that?"

The guard shook his head, confused. "I don't know. Maybe he's just an odd person."

"No. Caffrey's odd, but not like this. This I would expect from his friend. Someone's messed with the security footage. We're seeing this on loop." The guard shrugged, looking vaguely interested. "Come on," Peter said, "We have to search around that room."

He turned around for the guard, but he had vanished. Peter didn't like this one bit. Another guard walked by and saw them in the room. "Hey!" he shouted, running over, "What are you doing in there? That's for authorized personnel only!"

"Woah, calm down! Another guard let us in to view a video we needed."

The guard—Bentley, as his nametag read—looked them over suspiciously, his hand on his gun. "What was his name?"

"Smithers. That's what the tag said," Jones supplied.

"I don't know a Smithers. You'll have to come with me."

Peter protested, "Look, we're with the FBI. We were here yesterday investigating the stolen painting. The head of security knew that we were coming again today. Just talk to him and he'll confirm it." The guard hesitated, confused and wary. Watching them carefully, he took out his walkie-talkie and spoke into it.

"Alright. There is supposed to be another FBI investigation today. I guess you can continue to look around. Careful though, there's something not quite right about all of this." With that, the guard took a familiar, unobtrusive stance nearby.

Peter led the way, determined to find some clue of what Neal had been up to. He doubted it would be good. Neal was too thorough to make the mistake of actually being caught on camera, as his previous escapades had shown. As the minutes ticked on while they searched through the many hallways around the crime scene room, Peter began to worry. Then, he spotted it—a tiny smudge of blood on the floor right next to a closed door.

By now, they were in one of the smaller hallways that visitors to the museums didn't travel in. These were for cleaning crews and the like. Pointing the blood out to the guard, they put their hands to their guns and advanced cautiously toward the door. No sound came out. Flinging the door open, they were hit by a faint, but horrible smell. A smell of death. The blank eyes of a dead maintenance worker stared at them, while a third, a small red circle, mocked them from his bloody head.

Grimly, Peter looked around the small closet, scanning for anything that could link back to Neal. Did he even want to find something? As he turned away to talk to the shaken guard, something caught his eye. A shelf that had been half hidden suddenly came into sharp detail. And on that shelf, sitting as innocently as its owner would in Peter's chair, was Neal's hat.


	4. Doubts and Plottings

**OMG the next White Collar is going to be so awesome. Can't wait!!!!!**

**Sorry it takes such a long time to update. But, I'll probably be updating every Friday from now on.**

**This chapter is more of a plot intro, but you do get to find out bits of the nefarious plan that started with Neal's mysterious midnight meeting at the museum.**

**Thanks for all the reviews!**

**SopranoandBass: Neal definitely wouldn't be so careless with his hat. I liked the security guard bits too. He's going to pop up again in later chapters.**

**Drowning-ostrich: Peter agrees with you too, but that'll be next chapter :)**

**Ghostdolly: There'll definitely be more of this story. As I am also a rabid fan.**

**NJD-NW-GG-E-H: The fake guard Smithers will be coming up in the next chapter, and this chapter is the longest of the 4 so far. **

**Kanae Valentine: Yes, but cliffhangers make the story more fun!**

**Disclaimer: Don't own White Collar, or any of its characters.**

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I stared blankly into the darkness while the floor of the truck rocked and jolted its way towards wherever we were going. This was not going well at all. No one was supposed to actually _die_. A shudder ran through me involuntarily as I thought of the surprised expression on that maintenance worker's face as the bullet ripped his life away from him. The blood, _ohmygod, the blood_, that trickled down a face that didn't see anymore, would never see anything anymore. Stop it, I told myself sternly, Just don't think about it!, quickly restraining myself from thinking about the horrible scene anymore.

Maybe Peter would find me? I wondered hopefully. But did I really want him to? The masked man had shown little reluctance in killing. Another shudder went through me as my runaway imagination conjured up images of Peter lying dead on the floor, of _Peter's_ body in that closet instead, of—

My train of thought was interrupted as the bouncing motion of the truck stopped. I tensed as the doors were flung open. Masked Man, as I thought of him, who I saw through eyes squinted against the sudden glare of light, simply stood there staring at me. I glared right back at him, although I wavered a bit when I noticed the gun he absentmindedly fingered in his hands. He spoke first.

"I suppose you want to know why I brought you here." I said nothing, just kept my steady glare on him. Inside though, I was suddenly reeling with outrage. He was damn right I was wondering! And where was "here" anyway? He smirked through the mask at me. Sullenly, I wondered if he covered his face because he was ugly. And then I opened my big mouth and snarkily asked him just that.

His reaction wasn't exactly what I expected. Well, I reprimanded myself, did you want him to hit you instead of just laughing? But it still stung. I hated being laughed at, especially by a crazy murderer.

"You'd better keep that attitude in check," he told me, but he was still smiling…sinisterly? Maybe I was just paranoid. Then again, he had taken me here against my will.

"Where are we anyway? Why did you bring me here?" I kept my voice politely neutral. It probably wasn't a good idea to antagonize him.

"I'm hardly going to tell you where we are. As to why, well I wanted to prove a point to you."

I gaped at him. "I don't even know you!"

"Well, I don't know you either. But I know _of_ you." He said with that infuriating smile again. "I know the things you stole, the places you went, the people you know…particularly that FBI agent who caught you. He hounded you for years, and when you were caught, you turned 'consultant'?" Skepticism clouded his voice. "I know your past. It must be stifling, having to help those bumbling fools in the Bureau. And that leash they have on you!" He paused then, and I barely stopped myself from rolling my eyes at the dramatic pause. His voice lowered. "I can help you though. I can help you escape their clutches."

I was not that easily fooled. "What's in it for you?"

"Maybe I just wanted to help out a fellow _entrepreneur_." I still didn't say anything. "Well, I guess we could also steal stuff together too." This time I really did roll my eyes. This turned out to be a mistake as Masked Man suddenly struck me across the face. "You don't have a choice," he hissed in my ear as he dragged me out of the truck and into the building he had parked in front. I was still slightly in shock from the blow, but even more so by the extreme change in personalities.

I finally gathered my wits enough to spit back at him, "I don't work with _murderers_." An image of the dead worker flashed through my head again and I felt faint. There was no reaction from him, but he tied my hands and feet together rather brutally.

"I suppose I am. But I'm offering you your freedom. What's a random life worth next to that? It's survival of the fittest." His tone was even and controlled again, but I didn't dare risk angering him by pointing out the irony of my current tied-up state and his offer of freedom. I suppose he guessed my thoughts as I received a vicious kick to the head. My vision swam as black spots flickered around me and I barely suppressed a groan.

He went on as if nothing had happened. "Think about it. Freedom. Doesn't that sound nice?" I was glad that he left the room after that, locking the door and leaving me alone in the small, windowless room. A loud scraping sound from behind the door told me that he had probably dragged a piece of furniture in front of it.

I admit, I considered his offer seriously. He was right, I did miss my old life. It wasn't just the adventure or the adrenaline rush from a narrow escape or the satisfaction of a job successfully completed. It was the ability to choose where I wanted to go, what I wanted to do with my life. Unlike now. Now I was surrounded by people who distrusted me, trapped by the tracking anklet as effectively as a cage trapped a dog. Even Peter probably didn't trust me, even though I wanted him to. It hurt when you knew that someone you considered your friend only thought of you as an asset. A partner maybe, but not a friend. So why did _I_ see him as a friend?

Mozzie was my friend though, I reminded myself. Even if he couldn't understand why I didn't make more of an attempt to escape the FBI's grasp. Even if I didn't exactly trust him completely.

Maybe I could fake it? Pretend to be on his side long enough for Peter to find me?

The door opened, and Masked Man once again interrupted my thoughts. He crossed his arms and looked at me, the gun in his hand like a third presence in the room. I knew he was waiting for me to speak. Too bad I didn't know what to say.

Finally breaking the silence, he said, "Have you made up your mind? You want to be their slave, or you want to be free again? It's that simple. Slave or free."

Well…if you put it that way, I'd pick free. But it wasn't that simple. Life is never that simple.

"It's that Agent Burke, isn't it? The one who caught you," his voice was really very annoying. "You think of his as a friend, don't you?" This time he waited for my reply.

"Yes. I do," I finally said wearily, feeling as if we were going through lines in a script.

"You do know that he doesn't see you as _his_ friend, right?"

I felt a surge of anger at that statement. He didn't know me, and he didn't know Peter! Conveniently forgetting that I had been telling myself that just a few minutes ago, I growled, "That's not true. And even if you were right, Peter would still find me and stop your criminal activities!"

"Talking like a Fed now, Neal?…I expected so much better than that from you." I glared at him. Ignoring my look he said, "How do you even know he's bothering to look for you?" Inwardly I flinched. Would Peter really not even attempt to find me?

My voice was steady though, as I replied, "Even if you were right, and Peter isn't looking for me, he's still looking for _you_. And since you're here with me, he'll find me when he finds you." There. That showed him. My momentary triumph was interrupted by him speaking again.

"Do you really think that little of me? He's never gonna find this place. My partner's dealing with him right now." His smirk was back.

"Peter can handle himself. Your partner won't be able to kill him," I retorted with a confidence I didn't feel.

"Kill him? Ha! We're not going to kill him. Well, that _is_ an eventual possibility, but that depends on you." He paused for a moment, looking at me smugly. "What we're implementing right now is Plan B. In which I and/or we prove to you that Peter is not your friend."

Once again, I found myself gaping at him. "Are you _insane_? You kidnapped me, murdered someone, and is currently trying to hurt Peter, all so that you could prove that he isn't my friend?" This guy definitely had issues.

"I didn't kidnap you. As I recall, _you_ came to _me_. I—"

This time, I interrupted him. "I only came because of what _you _threa—" He struck me across the face again.

"Don't interrupt me when I'm speaking," he hissed at me. His frequent mood swings only reinforced my idea that he was crazy. Insane. Loony. My stunned mind continued to (unhelpfully) provide synonyms.

"As to my possible insanity, I'm not. I was quite a successful con myself, but I'm retired now. Quite frankly, it's boring."

A headache was beginning to form between my temples, and not just from the multiple blows I had suffered. He was doing this because he was _bored_? That was just…just _wrong_.

He was still speaking. For a crazy, bored crime mastermind, he really loved the sound of his own voice too much. "So I set out for a task worthy of my time. And I decided that I would free you," he pointed at me, "from the FBI. Because it's a disgrace to the criminal world that you turned traitor."

Traitor? How was I a traitor? I didn't owe that lot of people anything!

"And don't think I didn't notice your missing hat. I allowed you to leave it there as an incentive to get Peter to come after us. Only he wouldn't be coming after _us_, but my partner. And at the end of that long winding trail, after he sees all the things 'you've' done, after he's showed you that he doesn't trust you, has never trusted you…well, the end'll be up to you. But I'll wager you won't be feeling too kindly toward him by that point."

So much for the hat plan then. But there were more important things to worry about than my beautiful hat. "What do you mean 'the things 'I've' done'?"

The look he gave me was almost apologetic. "The people you're going to murder, of course, in order to get your hands on that priceless statuette they're showcasing in the Metropolitan Museum this week."

Murder? Me? Peter would never believe it was me! I had to stop this madman before more people died.

"You're wrong," I shook my head, "Peter wouldn't."

"Don't be so sure of that." His tone was still concerned and regretful. I had never wanted to punch someone as badly as I did now.

As if sensing my fury, he changed tactics. "If you could walk out of here right now. With Kate perhaps—"

"What does Kate have to do with anything?" I snapped, forgetting that I wasn't supposed to interrupt.

"Nothing, nothing," Ignoring my suspicious look, he continued, "If you would walk out of here right now, free, no strings attached, would you? The anklet's off. The FBI won't find this place for a long time, if ever. If you could leave now…would you?"

"What's the point of asking me that?" I scowled. "I'm not free to do that. So it doesn't matter. What _does_ matter, though, is that you'd kill people to get what you want. I would never join someone like that."

I didn't like his look, or that gleam in his eye as he left the room, the furniture scraped back in front of the door. I definitely didn't like his whispered statement, so quiet I could barely hear him, before he left.

"_We'll see."_


	5. Suspicions

**Apologies for the late update. **

**My chapters are getting steadily longer :)**

**But I did enjoy the season finale immensely, and the cliffhanger at the end...Can't wait till summer!**

**As always, thank you to all my reviewers, especially Kimberly S, SopranoandBass, and NJD-NW-GG-E-HP for reviewing practically every chapter.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own White Collar or any of its characters.**

**Enjoy!  
**

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Peter stared at the dark shadow sitting innocently on the hidden little niche in the wall. It stared right back at him.

_Neal's hat!_ What the hell was it doing there? Neal loved his hat to the point of insanity. Of course, Peter thought that the infatuation was slightly ridiculous, but it wasn't like Neal cared what he thought of it. Carefully, he stepped closer to the hat to look for more clues to Neal's whereabouts. His instincts screamed at him to be cautious, but it wasn't like he needed to be told. Finding the hat here, right next to the dead body, would have ignited suspicion in the greenest of agents.

He noted the position and snapped several pictures of it from different angles, but he couldn't find anything that would lead him anywhere. The hat laughed at him from its spot. Had Neal put it there? Or had someone else taken his hat and hid it there? Peter couldn't figure out why someone would want to leave such an obvious clue for the FBI, but he decided that they would have to take fingerprint analyses anyway. Just in case.

Jones and Lauren came over at his wave. "Hey, isn't that Neal's—" Jones began, but Peter cut him off.

"Yeah, I know. What we need to find out now is why it's there." Looking slightly abashed, they moved into the closet for a closer look. Peter stepped out, letting them in, and walked over to the other side of the hallway to think. The security guard Bentley, who stood opposite him, was taking in the scene with wide eyes. Realizing that the guard's normal morning had been interrupted by the sight of a murdered person, who he might even have known personally, Peter went over to see how he was taking all this.

"Hey, are you alright?" he asked gently.

At the sound of his voice, Bentley shook himself as if coming out of a daze. "I—I don't know…Mike…" he mumbled, waving his hand vaguely at the direction of the body. "I talked to him just—just the other day…he showed me pictures of—of his baby son…" his voice trailed off.

Inwardly, the words sparked rage and sadness at the pointless killing, and the tearing apart of a family. He even felt a bit of guilt for the deaths, that they hadn't managed to catch the killer before this man—Mike—got in his way. But this was part of the reason why he worked for the FBI, to stop criminals who thought that the laws didn't apply to them, even if he mostly dealt in theft and cons. The White Collar division didn't often get cases involving murder, and Peter knew that the corpse meant that other people would now have to get involved. On the outside, though, he displayed none of the tumult of emotions and thoughts he was embroiled in. The guard looked young and lost. He was suddenly reminded inexplicitly of Neal. Maybe it was their reactions to guns and their aftermaths. He put a comforting hand on the young man's shoulder.

Human touch seemed to shake Bentley out of his shell-shocked state. "I'm—I'm sorry," he fumbled for his radio. "I should call—I should be calling the head of security."

"You have nothing to be sorry for. His death was not your fault; you couldn't have done anything," Peter said firmly.

He waited while the guard shakily reported the murder to his boss.

"But you can help us to catch his killer by telling us about him," he pointed to the body, "and bring him to justice." Rather cliché lines, but the message behind it was clearly heartfelt.

Bentley seemed to sense it, because he said, "I didn't even know Mike that well. We just said 'hey' to each other when we passed in the hallways. My morning patrol brought me past his rounds, you see. Went out to lunch once or twice. I hadn't ever seen his family before he showed me that picture of his son." He fell silent, remembering the very next time he had seen him.

Peter considered this information. How did this fit into Neal's unexplained disappearance? There was no doubt that the two events were connected. And the original theft and subsequent occurrences seemed like an inside job.

He asked, "Did Mike have any other people he was close to here? Or anyone who would wish him ill?"

Bentley frowned. "Not really. He was pretty well-liked here. Amiable and pleasant sort of guy. But I wouldn't say he was close to anybody."

Now it was Peter's turn to frown. Alarm bells were ringing in his head, but he felt almost ashamed of thinking suspiciously of a man who had just died hours ago. He was FBI though, and he was trained to think past the instinctual niceties that society engrained into people.

"How long did he work here for?"

"You can't—You can't be thinking that he's somehow involved in this?" Bentley asked with surprise and, Peter noticed, a bit of anger.

"Well, everything has to be considered," Peter began carefully.

The guard scowled at him. "The guy stopped breathing not even a day ago! He wasn't a criminal; he was just a normal person! And you're accusing him of being involved in this?" Peter resisted the urge to tell him that Mike, as the murder victim, _was_ in fact involved. Now the question that remained was whether he had been involved _before_ his untimely death.

"Look, I'm not accusing him of anything," Peter held up his hands in a placating gesture. "But I'm an FBI agent, and we're trained to be suspicious." The noncombatant tone and the reminder of his status as a federal officer drained the fight out of the guard.

"I'm sorry," he apologized, "I don't know what came over me."

"You have nothing to apologize for," Peter repeated. "You've had a trying day—or morning—and you have a right to be upset. But please, anything you can tell me may be of use in the investigation."

The conversation stopped there, as Jones and Lauren came back out from. They had taken Neal's hat and placed it in a large bag, to be sent in for fingerprint analysis. Peter, catching sight of the museum's head of security, Kenneth Harrow, coming towards them at a brisk walk, left Jones and Lauren to try and get more information from Bentley.

Peter's first impression of Harrow was his cold, expressionless face. He was of medium height, with dark hair, and some it turning steel-grey. His flinty eyes were sharp and took everything in at an instance. Peter found himself doubting his theory of an inside man for a second, because who would be foolish enough to cross him?

"Agent Burke," Harrow greeted him with a nod of the head. "I understand that you and your team were investigating the recent theft when you discovered the body?"

"Yes," Peter said, "My team and I would appreciate any help you can give us."

"Of course," Harrow replied, sparing a cursory look at the body that was slightly illuminated by the light spilling in from the door. "The police have been notified, and I'm sure more FBI will be arriving shortly. In the meantime, I will try to answer your questions." He went over to take a closer look at the body. Peter was surprised by his reaction—or lack thereof.

A question that had been at the back of his mind all morning, but had been temporarily ignored in the "excitement" following the discovery in the closet came to the front of Peter's thoughts again. Who exactly was the guard Smithers? Bentley had said that he didn't know anyone named Smithers. It didn't escape Peter that it was a little too coincidental that an unknown guard had been the one to meet them. Of course, there was a possibility that he was a new guard, and Bentley simply hadn't had the opportunity to meet him yet. Still, at least it was a tangible lead that they could follow.

"Is Smithers really a guard at the museum?" Peter asked Harrow.

Without turning around, he responded, "Yes, he's just been hired a few days ago." Well, so much for that lead, Peter thought.

"Why'd you send him down to meet us then?"

"What?" this time, Harrow turned around to look Peter straight in the eye. "I would _never_ send a newly hired guard to escort the FBI team investigating the largest theft the museum's had in a very long time. We'd better go check the cameras."

Peter informed Jones and Lauren that he was going with Harrow to the security footage room, noting also that Bentley was looking slightly better, though still a little pale.

At the video room, Harrow and Peter began viewing the morning's footage. Peter watched intently as Jones, Lauren, and himself were met by—"There, that's him," he said, pointing to the guard who had just approached the figures on the television.

"No it's not," Harrows said. He and Peter looked at each other, wondering what had happened to the real Smithers. Neither wanted to find out.

As Harrows began reviewing the footage again, Peter half watched, half pondered the trying discoveries of the day—morning. It was only eleven o'clock am. He sighed slightly to himself. Still morning, and he'd already seen one body and a possibility of a second. Whoever was behind this whole tangled web was obviously not averse to killing to get what he wanted. Neal, and this time it was a groan, I know I've asked myself this many times, but what have you gotten yourself into this time?

"Here," Harrows broke into his thoughts. The scene that the screen was paused on showed the so-called Smithers getting into a dark blue sedan. "Here's that fake guard." The video now played and the man on the television drove away.

Peter remembered Neal telling him that you couldn't trust New Yorkers who didn't take the subway, which Mozzie had apparently said to him once. He wished that random reminders of Neal would stop popping into his head, especially if they were quoted from that strange man Neal considered his friend. Though, he supposed, this time, Mozzie was right. You really couldn't trust New Yorkers who didn't take the subway. And no matter how much Peter wished that he could trust him, whether Neal Caffrey was an exception to the rule was still to be determined. After all, FBI agents were trained to be suspicious.


	6. Silence

**Yeah...I know it's been awhile. And I am absolutely ashamed of myself.**

**So without any further comment from me (other than the disclaimer, but that doesn't count), here is chapter 6!**

**Disclaimer: White Collar doesn't belong to me.**

* * *

Peter and his team set off after the man, knowing full well that it was the best—the _only_—lead that they had in unraveling this whole mess. The only link to Neal that they had right now. Keeping his eyes on the road, he told Jones to report to base and request backup.

The other driver hopefully hadn't noticed their pursuit, but Peter honestly couldn't tell as the blue vehicle in his sights swerved and lurched dangerously through the traffic, FBI car following discreetly behind. Jones updated Hughes on their whereabouts and the license plate number of the car. "—tell NYPD?" he heard, and then he interrupted.

"No. No police on this one." His voice was firm.

"We can't risk losing him," Hughes said just as calmly, "He's the only lead we have!"

"I know that," Peter snapped, aware that his tone was just below insubordinate, but not caring. He was in the field after all.

Hughes reply was lost in the brakes' screech of protest as Peter slammed his foot down hard, barely keeping the car in control. Great. Only a completely deaf person wouldn't have heard that, and only a completely oblivious amateur wouldn't realize that he was being followed. And as the man had demonstrated, he was definitely not an amateur. At least Peter had managed to keep him in his sights around that sudden corner.

But not the next one.

Perplexed and then angry, Peter brought his car to a halt. "Please tell me you have satellite on him…" he said to Hughes.

"Yes, here," a new voice now joined in, presumably that of the technician "following" the man.

"He went around the corner and into a garage that was already open and waiting for him. Looks like it closed immediately afterwards, and that's why you couldn't see him anymore. No one's been in or out of that building." Which meant that he was probably still in there. Unless there was some sort of subterranean passage? Some schematics of the building would definitely be helpful right now, but Peter doubted that secret tunnels would be included in them. It was never that easy.

"Back up's on their way," Hughes voice cut in. "About five minutes out."

"Have them surround the building," Peter said as he motioned his team forward, drawing his gun and watching them follow suit. He cautiously stepped toward the building, but something told him that there was no danger outside.

But it definitely lurked _inside_

* * *

My head ached and my body hurt all over from sleeping in such an awkward position on the floor all night. Not to mention how hungry I was and how my hands were starting to feel numb from being tied up for so long. I stifled a groan and blearily looked around. The sleep I'd had hadn't done me any good at all. I was still exhausted and, I'll admit, afraid. No, not just afraid. _Terrified_. Then again, as I was being held prisoner by a lunatic murderer, it was probably a justified emotion.

He must have had some kind of hidden camera installed in the room because not long after my waking, I heard the sound of scraping behind the door. Nice of him to wait until I had woken up on my own to renew our conversation, I thought dryly. This time though, he'd sent two henchmen rather than bothering to come himself. Overseeing operations, I thought with a slight jolt of fear. No matter how good Peter was at his job, this scheme the madman had concocted definitely had the potential to leave him injured at the very least. There was no point even escaping; I had to find out what his plans were.

I didn't bother struggling as his thugs lifted me to my feet and shoved me out the door. A quick glance told me that he did place furniture in front of the door—an ornately carved wardrobe to be exact. I snorted inwardly. For a self-proclaimed successful conman with such elaborate plans, Masked Man's hideout wasn't exactly top-of-the-line.

Our destination was the truck again. This time, I did struggle—I didn't want to be locked up in that dark, jolting junk of a vehicle for an undetermined length of time, but my resistance was futile and only earned me a kick in the ribs. I really had to start picking my fights better. If I wanted to be in any shape to be of any use to anyone, I'd have to stop accumulating injuries, even if they were minor ones.

One of the henchmen grabbed my arm and twisted it sharply upwards, sneering when I let out an involuntary gasp. "Stop. Moving." he said in what he probably thought was a menacing tone. But as he punctuated each word with another twist on my arm, it was probably best to obey.

I glared as he took out a blindfold and roughly covered my eyes with it. It was hardly necessary, and the material was scratchy and, with my luck, filthy and disease-ridden. At least it didn't smell. The ropes around my wrists were checked and then I was unceremoniously flung into the truck, landing in an undignified heap on the floor with my head ringing. Mocking snickers were the last thing I heard before the back of the truck was slammed shut with a resounding clang.

**…**

Like the last one, the ride was uncomfortable, as each bump managed to jar my bruises and give me new ones. The truck seemed to teeter and shudder its way around corners and streets. Just how old was this thing anyway? I wondered irritably, as another bounce from the truck sent me sprawling again.

The pattern of me picking myself off the floor, and then falling back down again was repeated all throughout the ride. I was relieved when the truck stopped moving. After waiting a few seconds, I heard movements and muffled voices outside. Leaning my head against the cold metal, I could make out, "—rry up, he's on his way…everything's ready…" Who was on his way? What was ready?

A few more minutes ticked by, and nothing more could be heard.

Then the door clanged open again, and hands dragged me out of the truck. I swayed, disoriented by the blindfold and the nightmarish ride. But obviously they were in a hurry, as they didn't even bother allowing me time to get my bearings before simply grabbing my arms and dragging me to wherever we were going.

The gravel under my feet turned into the smoothness of cement or tiled floors, and the warm sunlight was exchanged for chilly, stale air. We went through a maze of hallways and I memorized the order dutifully. Right, left, left again, right…and then we went down an elevator. Although I didn't know what floor we were on, which was probably why we hadn't taken the stairs, I continued keeping track of the turns we took. It wasn't as if I had something better to do. Finally, we reached our apparent destination.

I was led to a chair, and my wrists were loosened. I flexed my fingers, feeling blood rushing through them again. This time, they gave me a moment before tying my hands behind the chair again.

"Not too tightly. Don't want him becoming permanently damaged after all." Masked Man had finally made a reappearance.

I turned my head towards the direction of his voice, and smiled a tight smile. "Nice of you to come. I was beginning to think you didn't care."

There was no answer, but footsteps approached me and removed the blindfold. I winced as the harsh fluorescent light hit my eyes. As the room came slowly back into focus, I casually scanned the room, searching for potential escape routes and the location of his pet thugs. The sight of two speakers brought a slight frown to my face before I could stop myself.

Masked Man grinned at me, "Now, now, you aren't planning on leaving now are you?" He waved an admonishing finger at me. I settled for a glare, rather than the choice words I wanted to fling at him. Hearing my unspoken words anyway, a nod from him sent a blow into my stomach from the henchman standing next to me. What had I decided about accumulating injuries?

He scowled at my lack of reaction.

"Your attitude is not going to help you, you know. And it's not going to help _him_ either. But then, again, you'll be past caring about his state of health soon." Again, I felt a jolt of fear at his words. Sensing my unspoken feelings he smirked at me. "Feel free to rough him up a bit," he said over his shoulder as he walked out the door.

The thugs still remaining in the room with me grinned stupidly at each other. Okay, so maybe I was being a little unfair. But then, most people were mentally inferior to me.

This is _not_ the time for self-flattery, I rebuked myself.

The first blow knocked my head back against the chair, and it, with me still tied to it, toppled onto the floor. Coarse laughter rang through the room and I gritted my teeth at the sound of it. Someone kicked me hard in the chest, knocking the breath out of me, and then they were all raining blows on my unprotected body. I let out a groan and they paused.

One of them righted the chair again.

Another pulled out a knife. I didn't quite manage to hide the flash of fear that flickered through me, and he advanced toward me, a cruel smile planted firmly on his face. Ugly face, I thought wildly.

He brought the knife up to my face, where my eyes stared back at me in terror from the blade's rusty edge. _Please no, no more…_I pleaded silently, my body aching from the mistreatment.

But of course, my pleadings went ignored.

**...**

A gun shot echoed in the distance. Peter's voice swam in and out of my hearing. "—need backup! Where's the damn backup?!" More gunshots.

"Stop shouting…" I mumbled to myself, "Peter, stop shouting…" Wait, Peter?

Peter!

My eyes shot open and I lurched to my feet. Or tried to anyway. I was still tied to the chair and even that brief movement made my stiff body throb with pain.

Nausea rose up in me when I saw the blood staining the floor.

My blood.

Events began floating back to me, and I remembered the truck ride, Masked Man, his thugs, _the knife_. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to stop shaking.

Another gunshot shocked me out of my horrified memories. Peter's shouts of alarm.

Where..? Oh, right. The speakers. And from the sounds of it, Peter was in trouble.

Gritting my teeth, I thrashed viciously against my bonds, ignoring the waves of agony that coursed through me with every motion.

* * *

Peter was Not Happy. Everything was not going according to plan. They were supposed to have gone in after the escaping man, apprehended him, and found out where Neal was. They were _not_ supposed to be pinned down in the middle of a large, abandoned room, hiding behind some convenient metal boxes.

Hmm…a little _too_ convenient. Peter quickly ran through the events in his mind, but all the while keeping an eye out for an escape route.

After walking through the maze of hallways, quickly and cautiously, they had found "Smithers" talking quietly on a cell phone, leaning against a wall and looking exhausted. Gun trained on him, Peter had opened his mouth to order the man not to move when he suddenly took off at a sprint, darting off through a nearby doorway. Peter swore silently as they raced after him, not wanting to risk accidentally killing him by firing.

At some point Smithers disappeared from view and then it was they who were at risk of being shot. He could literally hear bullets whizzing through the air, but thankfully, none of the shooters had anything close to good aim, and none came close to hitting them. What were they using anyway, pistols? What happened to bad guys using semi-automatics and all that heavy duty stuff?

Still this could not go on; they were bound to get hit eventually. "We need backup!" he had shouted, "Where's the damn backup?!"

Then they ducked into another hallway and then into a room, where they were now taking cover behind some boxes.

Jones and Lauren were keeping lookout, as Peter tried to figure out what to do. They had tried the radio, but its signal was being blocked. He knew he shouldn't have gone after Smithers like that. He had just been so desperate to find Neal, and that man was their only chance…

But his recklessness had led them to a trap. Now's not the time to blame yourself, he told himself firmly. Random gunshots and shouts echoed through the empty room, but they were faraway sounds. Then footsteps.

Thump thump. It stopped. Peter tightened his grip on his gun.

Thump, thump, thump. It was coming closer.

Using hand signals, he directed Jones and Lauren to the two sides of the boxes.

At his hushed "Now!" they sprang out and aimed…at an FBI agent?

The Fates weren't out to get him after all.

…….

"We engaged some of them but almost all of them were already gone by the time we'd got there," the agent reported. The rest of the agents and police—who were here despite Peter insisting that they not become involved—were sweeping the building. There was no sign of Smithers or Neal or anyone else.

His next words got his attention though, as he told him that they had also managed to capture two of them. "They're being held in a room…" He listened as the agent gave him the directions. _I need a cup of coffee_, he thought vaguely as he went off to see how Jones and Lauren were doing. The captured men could wait; he needed to see to his team first.

He found them standing outside with another agent, listening intently to a radio. They looked up at him when he arrived. Their faces told him that there was something wrong.

"It's Hughes," Jones told him.

Hughes greeted him quietly, and Peter stiffened at his tone. "Peter. Good to know you're alright."

"Yeah, I'm fine," Peter said, "What's wrong?" Out of the corner of his eye, Lauren and Jones exchanged looks.

There was a pause.

"There was a break-in at the Metropolitan Museum. Last night, apparently, but they didn't call us until an hour ago. Looks like it's another inside job."

Peter was confused. What in the world did this have to do with him? It wasn't like he was the only one who worked at the White Collar unit!

"Look, I'm not being disrespectful or anything, but can't someone else handle this?" Peter kept his voice even and polite. "I have to find Neal!"

Hughes voice was unusually solemn as he replied, "Yes. Yes, you do."

There was another pause.

_What?_

"I think you're mistaken…" Peter began, but Hughes cut him off.

"No, we're not. You, _we've_ tracked Caffrey for years. We know his mannerisms, his signatures, and this entire thing reeks of his involvement."

Peter was breathing slightly faster now. No. No, it wasn't true. Hughes was wrong. The White Collar unit was wrong. _You've never even trusted him!_ He thought angrily, _Just how long did it take you to jump to that particular conclusion anyway?_ But he was still too shocked to voice his disagreement.

Instead, he simply said, "Do you have proof?"

Hughes seemed to take his silence as an indicator to go on.

"We do actually, we do have proof. Not very solid, but it was what led to our suspicions in the first place." _I doubt that_, Peter thought resentfully.

"It's connected to the music box," he said abruptly, "the one that I know Caffrey's after."

There was silence as Peter tried to get his mind under control.

The music box.

The one thing that he could honestly say that he knew Neal would go to any lengths to get. Other than Kate herself.

And then suddenly, he wasn't sure anymore. Was Neal really a victim in this? Yes. Yes, of course he is, the part of him that was himself and not his FBI self snapped. Neal would never betray him.

"There's more," Hughes murmured. _More?_ "Three people…were killed."

"Three more dead?" Peter's voice was hoarse. He ignored the looks of sympathy from Lauren and Jones.

"I want you to go to the museum and see for yourself. You could probably read more from the scene than any of us," Hughes said after realizing that Peter wasn't going to speak.

Peter's voice was harder and harsher than he intended, "Yeah, I probably could."

* * *

"_Yeah, I probably could."_

I froze at the words, horrified. Peter didn't…he didn't…_believe_ Hughes, did he?

Especially after hearing of the three dead. He must know that I would never kill anyone. That simple statement didn't mean anything. It was just a fact. Peter knew me better than anyone. He hadn't actually said he believed them.

_But he didn't deny it either, _a treacherous voice whispered deep inside me. _He didn't stand up for you against the accusations. He stood there and listened._

He's an FBI agent, they're supposed to listen to all sides of the story! But I knew I was grasping at straws now. _He didn't bother listening to __**your**__ side of the story…_

I was shaking violently now, stunned that such a little thing could send Peter's trust in him down the drain. _Maybe because it never existed in the first place._

Damn that music box. For the first time, I looked at it not as an object that would allow me to get Kate back, but as a hated _thing_.

I didn't bother looking up when the door creaked open and Masked Man stood in front of me. He was enjoying my misery, I knew, but I couldn't summon the energy to say or even think anything.

His hand came up and grabbed my chin, forcing me to look at him. His grin widened when he saw the ragged cut on my face from where he thug had sliced it open. "Did you enjoy the show?" he asked me laughingly.

And then I snapped.

He watched me rage and thrash against the restraints, that horrible little smile never leaving his face, until I was exhausted and in a haze of pain. Some of the cuts had reopened and blood was dripping onto the floor.

"Don't worry, it's not over yet!" he practically sang, and his henchmen came in to untie me and drag me out of the room.

My overwhelmed mind began slipping away again.

Peter's voice, hard and flat, echoed inside my head, _"Yeah, I probably could_."

But it was his silence in the face of Hughes's accusations that hurt the most.

* * *

**So...was it worth the wait? Hope it was, and I apologize again. But, on the bright side, I do have the story plotted out (vaguely, but it's there) now.**

**By the way, if you see any mistakes, feel free to point them out and I'll correct them.**

**And last, but certainly no least, thank you to all those who reviewed!**


	7. Conversations

**Disclaimer: I do not own White Collar or any or its characters.**

* * *

This time, Jones drove. Peter was too preoccupied with his own thoughts to concentrate on anything, much less driving. He certainly had plenty to think about—his boss had just blindsided him with accusations that his friend and partner was guilty of thievery, as well as the assorted murders that were tied to these particular thefts. Friend, thief, partner, criminal, friend, thief, partner, criminal… These thoughts dashed through his head in rapid succession, making him confused and slightly sick. He didn't even really want coffee anymore, not until the world stopped pulling the floor from out under him. All he wanted now was some sleep, because where there was sleep, there was a vague hope that he might awaken to find that this had simply been a nightmare.

"…Are you all right?" Lauren's voice broke into his dazed thinking.

He didn't answer, instead covering his face with his hands. As a result, he missed seeing the worried expression that his agent took on when he did so.

Quietly, she asked him, "Do you want to talk about it?"

Peter took his hands off his face and contemplated them for a second. "It's…it's just…" he trailed off.

Lauren waited with a calm patience, although inside she was a whirlwind of emotions. She had never seen her boss at such a loss for words before, had never seen him so _vulnerable_. No matter what happened, there was always an air of determination about him. Agent Peter Burke was an excellent agent, and, in her opinion, one of the best. It spooked and hurt her to see him so lost. Seeing Jones glance at Peter concernedly confirmed that he felt the same way.

"Let's just find Ne—" he paused, wavering. "Let's just get to the bottom of this," he said firmly, "So that we can move on." His face was schooled back into a determined expression, though he couldn't fool her. She knew that he was still reeling from evidence that Hughes had hit him with.

And the reason for his current state? The reason that he was drawn and worried, and stressed? The same thing—person—that it always was. Neal Caffrey.

Although their relationship had gotten to the point where it could be considered "casual friendliness," she still wasn't sure whether she could trust him completely. But whatever her opinions of him, when they did get to the bottom of it, as Peter had said, Neal had better have a good explanation.

Or else.

* * *

"So!" Masked Man announced, much too loudly for my headache. I opened my eyes a crack and squinted at him. Having gotten my attention, he, of course, had to pause for dramatic effect.

Everything hurt too much to be playing these games, I groaned inside my head. Not pausing to consider the possible ramifications of talking to oneself, I mumbled a disinterested, "What?" as he obviously wanted me to do. Maybe if I responded to him, he'd go away and leave me alone.

Satisfied that I had done what he wanted, he said, "I was just thinking, and I had an idea." I refrained from quipping, 'Bound to happen eventually!'

He glared at me. "Don't you want to know what my idea was?" the slightest hint of a threat in his voice. This man sure had issues. Still, he _was _the man with the guns and the thugs…

"What was your idea?" I asked dutifully.

"Actually…" he said, "I think I'll tell you later." I heaved an imaginary sigh. My interest was slightly piqued, however, when, after he left I heard him talking about "that museum" and "FBI." Given that he had told me that the statuette I was supposedly going to steal was in a museum in New York right now, I was sure that those words weren't a good combination. What I wasn't sure about was whether he had let me hear to torment me, or if he had accidentally revealed a real to clue to what he was planning.

**……..**

Presently, I heard footsteps outside the room I was held in. The feeling of disorientation told me I must have dozed off for a little while. It wasn't a surprise, really, given that being held captive was extremely boring.

I didn't bother to straighten up when Masked Man returned, instead staying slumped on the chair I was tied to.

"Well," he began. Then he stopped, as he noticed that I was looking at him. "Well!" he repeated, raising his voice. I flinched despite myself at the shout, my body linking his voice to pain and injury. When I finally raised my head, there was a cruel little smile tugging a corner of his mouth. I shuddered inside at the sight of it.

Satisfied that he now had my undivided attention, he began talking again. "I think I'm gonna let you go…"

* * *

Jones and Lauren had kept a careful eye on him the entire time they had been investigating the theft, from . Peter wasn't sure whether to be flattered, amused, or annoyed. Annoyed, he decided. Definitely annoyed, as he had caught Lauren giving him a _look_, as they listened to the distraught curator explain how a priceless statuette had been stolen last night.

When he finally seemed to draw to a conclusion, or at least draw in a breath, Peter took the opportunity to break into the one-sided conversation. "Why didn't you report it missing when you discovered it to be?"

There was an embarrassed pause before the curator finally admitted that they thought that it had simply been misplaced.

"It's a big museum!" he said defensively, "And we have had many valuable shipments today."

"Did you check the other shipments, make sure nothing was stolen?" Peter asked.

"Of course we did!" he said indignantly, "It's common sense. Having something stolen from us does not mean that we're fools!"

Peter could feel a headache coming along.

* * *

I blended in with the people milling about looking at displays as I watched Peter, Lauren, Jones, and a man who was probably the curator disappear up the stairs into an "employees only" hallway—which was flanked by two security guards. After trying, with no success, to find a way to follow them without being seen, I began to wonder whether I should just wait outside for them to leave. But that might take a very long time, and time was something I didn't have the luxury of right now. I decided to watch the hallway for a little while before trying a new tactic.

A few minutes ticked by. I sighed softly. Time for Plan B.

"Excuse me," I said, tapping the shoulder of one of the security guards, "I need to talk to the curator." The pair of guards looked at me, taking in my disheveled appearance (sprinting several blocks down crowded New York sidewalks was no simple feat, especially with injuries), and slightly suspicious-looking clothing (I had to wear a long sleeved jacket, a scarf, and sunglasses to cover up said injuries).

"Sorry, the curator is busy right now," one finally said, "And he only meets people by appointment anyway."

"I'm an expert in a _particular_ statuette of interest," I said smoothly, "And I did have an appointment, but I got caught up in traffic on my way here." They still looked doubtful, so I quickly said, "Why don't we just go ask him? I saw him go right down that hallway with some FBI agents, who I assume is also helping with the case?"

They looked at each other again and seemed to come to a silent decision. "You stay here, Mr.—?"

"Caffrey. Neal Caffrey." I supplied helpfully.

"All right, Mr. Caffrey," the guard said, "I'll go ask him then." And he disappeared down the hallway.

The remaining guard and I looked at each other. After what seemed like an eternity, the guard came out, saying, "I'm sorry for the inconvenience, Mr. Caffrey. Here is the curator and Agent Burke and his team." A shocked looking Peter, a vengeful-looking Lauren and Jones, and a very confused curator followed him

"Well done," Masked Man's voice murmured into my hidden earpiece. I flinched at the sudden and deeply unwelcome voice, "But you know what will happen if you give anything away to your little FBI friend…" I clenched my teeth at his barely veiled threat.

* * *

Peter saw how Neal flinched when he walked out of the hallway behind the security guard. He was wearing a ridiculous outfit that made him look almost alien. He was so used to seeing Neal in his trademark suits and that funny hat—what was it called again?—that seeing him in anything else was plain weird.

"Let's go to my office," Mr. Allen, the curator, suggested. "And you can tell me what's going on," he added, once they were out of earshot of the guards, a gesture that Peter appreciated.

During the short walk there was completely unbroken by conversation. Peter found himself staring at Neal, frowning when he noticed that he was favoring his left leg. Looking closer, he saw that his whole body seemed stiff as he walked, with only a shadow of the casual but confident air Neal usually held. He didn't look at Peter once.

"Here we are," Mr. Allen said, holding the heavy door open for them and nodding at their murmured thank yous.

The office he led to them to was wide and spacious, with dark, wooden bookshelves lining the walls, and comfortable looking sofas placed strategically on the carpeting. An oak wood desk sat at the far end of the room, where an open laptop sat on a corner, and writing utensils, folders, and papers lay scattered about on the remaining area in an organized chaos. They took seats on the sofas, where the thick silence from the walk over continued to prevail.

Despite his seeming rather befuddled to Peter at first, the curator's sharp eyes took in the odd state of Neal, the "expert" on the stolen statuette, who was slowly looking around the office and not meeting the eyes of the FBI agents, Peter, who was trying to observe Neal without him noticing, and Lauren and Jones, who were glaring daggers at Neal for ignoring Peter. "Right," he said, "Why don't I get you guys some coffee? We can continue our discussion when you're _at ease_." He looked at them rather pointedly and the tension that was practically radiating out of them. Jones and Lauren got up and offered to help him, and the three left the room.

When the door closed quietly behind them, neither of them spoke. Neal was uncharacteristically silent, studiously studying the patterns on the sofa he was sitting on, and continued to refuse to look at Peter. He seemed completely exhausted.

The silence in the room thickened until it was almost as if it were another presence.

Finally, Peter gave in, "So where the hell were you?"

* * *

I wondered if Peter was angry. When the curator—Mr. Allen?—Jones and Lauren had left, the silence had almost become unbearable. And although I had been in such a panic earlier about finding Peter, now that I was actually able to talk to him, I didn't know what to say. So I stayed quiet and tried to sink into the comfortable sofa I was sitting on.

I tried to figure out what I should say to him to make him understand, without making the listening Masked Man angry. Writing was an option, though I wondered whether Peter would be able to sound convincingly ignorant in the general cover-up conversation once he read what I had to say. Masked Man had said that he used to b a conman, so the question now was whether Peter was a good enough actor to con him.

I was just about to initiate the conversation when Peter spoke, his voice harsh, "So where the hell were you?"

Wincing at his tone, I thought about how unfair it was for him to sound so accusing. "Told you so…" a voice breathed in my ear. I leapt out of my chair in surprise. Masked Man had been arrogant, sneaky, manipulative, but now he was just _infuriating_. My extreme annoyance faded somewhat, however, when the events of the past day caught up to my body and the world spun around me in a blur. Somehow, I ended up on the floor, panting for breath, with Peter's concerned presence next to me.

Before he could speak, I put a finger to my lips and pointed to my ear, where the tiny earphone was just barely visible, even to people who knew where to look. I thanked his training—the same training that allowed him to catch you and keeps him from trusting you, a treacherous part of me whispered—when he didn't react audibly to what he saw.

Looking around for a sheet of paper and a pen made the world tilt again and I felt suddenly nauseous. Catching on to what I wanted, Peter went over to the curator's desk, and with the briefest of hesitations, picked up a blank sheet of paper and one of the less expensive-looking pens.

_Talk, _I wrote, when the pen was handed to me and he had helped me sit up on the floor against the sofa I had been sitting on before. _Sound accusing, _I added, remembering what Masked Man had warned.

He looked surprised at that last statement, but he evidently decided to just go along with it for now. He probably wanted to yell at me anyway.

"What were you thinking?" he snapped, "Cutting your anklet like that and running off?"

He sounded so convincingly disapproving that I had to remind myself again that he was just acting. This was made a lot easier by the worried expression that completely contrasted with his tone. I scribbled on the sheet of paper as I replied, making myself sound desperate, "It wasn't my fault!"

I passed the paper and pen over to Peter, _I know you're gonna freak out when you read this, so stay calm and keep with the conversation. He threatened to hurt Elizabeth if I don't do as he says._

* * *

_He threatened to hurt Elizabeth…_

Peter felt a seething anger burn through him as he read the lines, written in Neal's sprawled, perfect handwriting, almost forgetting to reply to the last verbal comment. He tried to pass it off by seeming shocked to silence with indignation and angry exasperation, "…Not your fault!? It's never your fault! You go around doing this, and that, and you never care a whit about the people around you!"

With his head bent down to write his own message, he missed the sudden uncertain look that flitted across Neal's face. It was gone though, by the time he passed his short, one-word response over to him.

_Who?_

When Neal took the pen and began to write, saying, "Why don't you listen to me? You didn't even hear my side of the story before you started accusing me!" Peter thought that the words, although said in a cover-up conversation, rang a little bit too true. Especially given the fact that he was here in this museum now only because Hughes thought that Neal had done it.

As Neal seemed to be composing an essay, he took a moment to sweep his eyes over his friend's collapsed state, frowning when he noticed a dark—bruise?—almost completely covered by the scarf he was wearing. Peter narrowed his eyes, and, struck by a sudden suspicion, eyed the long sleeved jacket he was wearing, and the dark sunglasses. Remembered his uncharacteristic silence. Saw again in his mind, how Neal had flinched at the sight of him.

"I don't want to hear your excuses," he snapped at him, "Now be quiet and let me think." There, that should satisfy whomever was listening in on their conversation. Now he just had to find out the extent of Neal's injuries. He silently berated himself for not noticing it sooner.

Neal started in surprise when Peter snatched the sunglasses off his face. For a moment they froze like that, Neal half lying on the floor looking exhausted, pen still in hand, with his eyes wide open like a deer in headlights, and Peter holding a pair of sunglasses in his hands, glaring at Neal's bloodshot eyes.

Neal exhaled quietly, and looked away, back toward the paper he was writing on, when Peter moved so that he could look at his face better. There was a sharp intake of breath when he saw the thin, barely visible knife marks. He put a hand his shoulder, but quickly withdrew it when Neal winced in pain.

"That's it," he ordered, "You're going to the hospital." Neal obviously had to see a doctor, and Peter had to go make sure Elizabeth was safe. Although he knew that the entire story hadn't been completely written yet, but right now, he didn't care. He would make do with what he had. Besides, Neal could finish the rest of his story while lying in a bed at a hospital.

* * *

What?

I didn't want to go to a hospital! I _couldn't_ go to a hospital. "No, Peter you don't understand!" I tried to convince him, but it was as if I were talking to a brick wall. Except that it was, you know, a brick wall with a head and could talk back.

"Maybe not, but what I do understand is that you're injured," Peter practically growled. "And, as such, you are going to the hospital!"

"But…" his angry glare silenced me. I sighed to myself and gave up, hauling myself to my feet with some effort instead of arguing further. I'd just have to find a way to escape the room they put me in; that was all. How hard could it be?

**…..**

Apparently, it could be very hard. I tried to give the hospital security guard whom Peter had actually ordered to stand watch at the door the death glare that Peter gave me whenever he wanted me to be quiet. As I was bandaged all over and wearing ridiculous hospital clothing, it had no effect whatsoever. After receiving some bland looks from my efforts I gave it up as a lost cause, deciding to think of a way out of this mess instead.

At Peter's insistence, they had given me a room with no windows. Just A single, guarded door and four blank white walls.

For a second, they seemed to close in on me, stifling me, as my mind dragged out memories of another white room. And the knife that came closer and closer…

I forced myself to calm down. Having a panic attack wasn't going to help. A glance at the clock told me that it was 4:37 p.m. Apparently, we had spent roughly half an hour at the museum. Which, I thought, had a very understanding curator, as he hadn't even seemed annoyed when Peter told him that a new team would be assigned to the case. Either that, or he was glad to be rid of us and our angst issues. In any case, Hughes had kept Lauren and Jones on the case for the time being, as it was the only lead we had on Masked Man. Although I had nothing against them personally, I was glad when Peter told me, as the two had been giving me miniature versions of their boss's death glare ever since I had first arrived at the museum and they had seen me. This time though, I was sure I had done nothing wrong; I hadn't even said anything!

Peter, on the other hand, had went to arrange security for Elizabeth and June. Right now, his assignment was, as Hughes had put it, to "keep that Caffrey away from all that crazyness he had been mixed up in." Which, I supposed, was the closest thing he would ever get to admitting that he was worried about me.

My good mood was short-lived, as it immediately evaporated when my eyes fell upon the clock again.

3:52 p.m.

Masked Man had given me three hours. And I was still trapped in the hospital with just two hours left.

* * *

"Glad to hear you're all friendly-like with the Feds again," the earpiece snarled. "I hope you haven't forgotten what I said." Peter hated him and the sound of his voice. The one who Neal called "Masked Man." The man who had kidnapped Neal and tortured him. He didn't say anything aloud, as he didn't want to tip him off that the earpiece and its microphone were now with the FBI. He did, however swear at him viciously in his head.

The earpiece was lying on the table in one of the soundproof meeting rooms. Peter watched it for awhile to see if it would make any more comments.

After minutes had ticked by, he thought of Elizabeth instead. She hadn't been happy when he ordered FBI agents be placed around their house, but she had understood. A small smile tugged a corner of his mouth up as he remembered their conversations. He wouldn't let some madman hurt her. Seeing one person he cared about in that state was already horrifying enough.

From what Neal had told him, it seemed like Masked Man had threatened her, and then…just let Neal go? This didn't add up. Was there something Neal had kept to himself? No. He mustn't jump to conclusions. Unfortunately, his FBI-trained mind was geared toward suspicion. Because as much as he wanted to trust him, his training told him that Neal was hiding something.

But why? He was safe now. What would make Neal feel the need to omit something?

The earpiece burst to life again, saying, "Why the silence Neal? I don't remember you being so quiet before." There was a pause, as if the speaker was waiting to see whether there would be a response. Then, "In fact, I seem to remember that your screams were quite loud…"

At that, Peter couldn't contain himself anymore and swore under his breath at the earpiece, his mind playing the words over and over again as if on loop, "…_your screams were quite loud…"_ and forced him to think the thoughts he had been avoiding ever since they had found Neal. He was supposed to keep Neal safe! He was a civilian with no training, and he, Agent Peter Burke, had let his charge, _his friend_, fall into the hands of this madman. _"…your screams…"_ echoed through his head like an accusation.

A voice broke into his guilt-stricken thoughts.

"Ah…the famous Peter Burke, I presume?" Masked Man asked. "I think that we've got a lot to discuss, don't you?"

_…What?_

* * *

**A/N: I switched POVs often this chapter. Hopefully it wasn't confusing.**

**Thank you for your reviews; I enjoyed reading all of them!**


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